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Wanderlust.
Marcia had a fresh attack of the old fever the other morning. She was down on her knees on the blue and red rug in the sun -porch, hunched, like a Mokammedau at prayer, over the Atlas. And as she looked at the rugs of China, at the coastline of Chosen up in one comer, she suddenly saw herself in a little foreign boat, one- sailed, on the chill morning sea. About her were brown, white - clothed people; with them she was looking toward a high, strange coast: purple peaks rose, shay into the pale- golden sky. It was so clear, [[crossed-out]] like something out of Prince Loto [[/crossed-out]] ... She felt the cold, fresh air upon her face, in her throat, and knew again the old, painful rapture.